Mrs Malfoy, in the library, with a knife
by Capilotract
Summary: Hermione Granger shocks everyone when just out of Hogwarts, she marries Draco Malfoy. Draco tells people he married her to help restore his family's political standing and Hermione claims that Draco's resources will allow her to really make a difference in the world. Everyone accepts the explanation and life goes on. Well, almost everyone...
1. Chapter 1

It had been a quiet day. A perfect day. Twilight was stretching on her hands like a nonchalant lover surprised by lascivious felicity. She watched dreamily as last bright sunrays enhance the amber colour of her drink. The strong whisky was swaying before her eyes in an enticing dance she couldn't resist. The entire room smelt of turf and long runs in wet fields under the pouring rain; it smelt of grey skies, tormented clouds and of the allaying cold of the North. Minerva McGonagall took a sip, letting the alcohol slightly burn her tongue before swallowing it. Her lips were warm and numb, and she couldn't help but tilt her head in delight.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The glass felt smooth between her long, caressing fingers. Her mind was only mildly eased, and that sulky feeling was still lingering inside, taunting her disdainfully. Something was wrong, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly. It was a hunch, nothing more. Besides, she usually didn't believe in intuitiveness. She believed in facts, on logic, on reasoning, and she held for a fact that today had been a quiet, perfect day, hadn't it? Anyway, that kind of clairvoyance was far too close to Trelawney's so-called 'Art of Divination' for her liking.

This was different, however. She was forced to admit it was. She wasn't just _suspecting _it, she was _feeling_ it. Like a knot in her viscera, it had kept bugging her most of the day, now that she thought of it. All day long it had been here, hiding patiently. Yes, she remembered it now, this unease that had followed her everywhere, like a shadow. It was just gut feelings, though. Why would she start believing in such inanities today? This was ridiculous.

The faint noise of something tapping on her window made her eyes snap open. On the ledge proudly stood a Great-Horned Owl, which starred almost defiantly at her, with piercing yellow eyes. The bird emitted a low squawk, flapping its wings as to stretch them. In its claws was a small package, sealed with a dark burgundy wax. And her name, _Minerva._

The Hogwarts' Headmistress rose from her armchair and quickly went to open the window. She carefully took the parcel, absently handing a biscuit to the owl, which took it reverently, his eyes gleaming in the falling night. She narrowed her eyes at the handwriting, her heart pulsing stronger in her chest. She knew that handwriting. She knew it well and could never fail to recognise it.

_Minerva._ Nobody had ever addressed her mail with her first name only. As if the character imposed a certain solemnity, the most personal letters she had received during her life had always been addressed to Minerva _McGonagall_. That uncommon familiarity, even coming from the expeditor she had already guessed the identity, was somehow frightening. She feared what this might mean as well as she felt a jolt of excitement rush through her. She unwrap it religiously, humming the scent of orchids and white lilies lingering on the parchment. She smiled tenderly; oh, indeed, she knew.

It was wrapped in the softest silk she had ever held; it glided between her fingers like water. A lump formed in Minerva's throat as she saw what it contained; glooming almost ominously was a small golden ring. Suddenly, the jewel felt heavy, too heavy in her hand. She took a quick, shaky breath, her emerald eyes veiled with burning tears. She tried to steady her pant, trembling fingers reaching for her glass, which she finished in one strangled gulp. There was a word, with the ring. The handwriting had smudged a bit in places, but what is said was still well readable. The empty glass escaped her hand as her eyes kept dancing across the words, as to print them in her memory, in her soul. _Is thu m'annsachd._

The glass shattering on her office floor made her emerge from the sentence. It seemed unreal. The noise had woken up several portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses, her late friend Albus Dumbledore, being one of them. His mischievous blue eyes were staring at her with concern. But he had seen that look before, and knew better than to talk. Minerva was wan and starring back at him. In no more than ten seconds, she had disappeared, leaving the office in complete silence.

The Malfoy Manor was standing before her, with its usual arrogant greatness. It hadn't changed much, over the years. Even if the war with Voldemort and his followers was now history, it seemed the past wasn't something easy to forget. A ghastly mist surrounded the place, offering, with the imposing iron gates, another protection to the house. Even if it was no longer the theatre to dreadful tortures like it had previously been, the place still smelt of unforgiveable darkness, of _shame_.

Minerva pushed the gate, shivering at the metallic squeak it gave in response. She was one of the few that was allowed to enter by the magical wards, not that she had used that privilege often. Maybe she should have, she thought, bitter regrets squeezing her throat. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't be running down the endless gravel path right now, the little stones flying under her hurried steps. She knocked — hammered — at the massive door, anxious running a hand on her livid face as she waited for an answer.

The heavy door opened in a bone-chilling creak, revealing the diminutive silhouette of an house elf. The Transfiguration master noted that, unlike Dobby or the previous house elves of the Malfoy family, this one seemed… happy. Dissonant from his predecessors, he was draped in a rich, dark green fabric, decorated with silver circumvolutions. The large, protruding eyes of the diminutive creature looked at the witch, up and down, warily.

"Welcome in the noble house of the Malfoys," it said with reverence, "How may I help you?"

"I'm here to see Lady Malfoy, it's urgent."

The elf straightened up a bit, narrowing his eyes, still fixed upon the anguished figure of the witch. There didn't get many visitors here, let alone such distressed ones. He cocked his head, pondering the statement. _Urgent. _No one had _urgently_ desired to see the mistress for quite a time, now.

"The mistress doesn't usually receive visitors," he said in a low, intimidating voice, as his eyes fell upon the wand firmly held by the woman.

"That I know," Minerva breathed, barely above a whisper, in a hollow voice. Oh yes she knew. She knew just too well how the mistress didn't received visitors in the large manor. "But I need to see her. It's important."

For Merlin's sake, couldn't that damned elf understand that and let her in?

"The mistress asked not to be disturbed," he retorted, crossing his arms on his chest, obviously ready to defend his employer's interests with his life. "I could take a message, maybe?"

"Tell her Minerva McGonagall is here." _And not leaving._

The elf's eyes widened significantly at the mention of her name, starring at her with a mixture of fear and solace that surprised the witch. She arched her brows in question, wondering what this was all about and why the elf hadn't already disappeared to go to his mistress to send her message.

"McGonagall? Minerva McGonagall?" he repeated in a squeak.

For a moment she thought the elf was going to slam the door on her face. Instead, he opened it wider and stepped aside, motioning for her to enter.

"The mistress," began the elf slowly, obviously afraid to reveal too much about his mistress, who seemed to like her privacy and secrets. "I know you're somehow… special to her," he added, choosing his words carefully. "She certainly won't be angry I let _you _inside." There was a question hiding behind those words, as if the elf wasn't really sure that was the right thing to do.

Time was precious and Minerva had to be quick, but she couldn't help asking, a bit startled by what the creature had just said.

"She talked about me?"

The elf fidgeted, obviously torn between what he wanted to tell, and what he was allowed to tell. His little hands were absently playing with the dark green material of his clothes, as he bit his lips nervously.

"I know things without her needing to really tell me about them," he answered cryptically, eyeing the woman with a contrite smile. "The mistress is in the library. You just have to —"

"I know the way, thank you," she retorted already moving, her dark robes flying about behind her.

Minerva's footsteps echoed in the large corridors of the manor as she hurriedly made her way to the library. She was driven by an invisible force, pushed by the feeling she had to hurry; that somehow, she might be too late already. The image of the small golden ring enveloped in silk was still dancing before her eyes, like a reminder, like a _warning_.

Her pale fingers reached for the doorknob and turned it, the door swinging open to reveal the vast library…

Minerva froze.

She had pictured many scenarios, during the short time she took to come to Malfoy Manor, but nothing could have prepared her for what she was witnessing right now. On the other side of the library, the faint light of the candles were shaping the svelte outline of one of her former students. A student she had first met more than a decade ago, and yet, it felt just like yesterday. The shy little girl she had once taught had grown into a gorgeous woman, with thin features and light curves.

The Headmistress gasped as the metallic gleam caught her eye: a sharp, silver dagger was flashing ominously under the candles' light, ready to tear apart the flesh. Her mouth was dry from the nerve-wracking scene unfolding before her. She heard a strangled plea, not realising at once that hoarse voice was actually hers.

No response came, but the figure turned towards her, eyes meeting, locking into each other's; it felt like a slap on her cheek.

The brown eyes of her former student, of her prize student, her _protégée_, showed nothing but a cold determination. Determination, and a deep sorrow that made Minerva's heart sink in her chest. She looked awfully resigned, like she had just… given up.

Hermione was beautiful, she thought. Even here, even like this, with that deathly resolution dancing in her gaze. Her hands were steady now, as if the Headmistress' presence had given her the last part of courage she was missing to carry on what she had started. Her fingers held the knife in a sweet embrace, like a lover the morning after a night of worship. The pale pink lips mouthed something that looked like a final apology, but the older witch couldn't hear the words, her head buzzing with fear, with a dreadful fear that had her petrified, rooted on the spot.

* * *

><p><em>The Grangers hadn't seemed too surprised, when Minerva had visited them, after a rough explanation of what was Hogwarts, and more to the point, what their daughter was. Sometimes, the muggles thought of it as a joke, simply throwing the letters away. It then took more than one's willpower to convince them to at least discuss the topic. Entering the house wasn't much of an issue, the Scottish witch obviously impressive enough for people not to block her way.<em>

_Those parents had been kind and ready to listen. She had demonstrated some basic spells, to show them it wasn't a 'candid camera' — not that she even knew what a camera was — and they had reacted well, surprisingly well in fact. They had no idea wizards actually existed, and if there had already been some in their respective family branch, they simply weren't aware of them. The fact their daughter was indeed a witch had them aback at first, but they couldn't be happier. — The father had always said their little 'Mione was special._

_Katherine Granger had called for the girl to come down, because they had a… visitor. She'd quickly added a 'Now young lady, you'll finish that chapter later!', apologising to the witch with a sheepish grin, as she explained their daughter was always stuck the nose in books. The Scot had smiled at that comment, taking a sip of the tea she had been offered. Hurried footsteps had brought the girl in the living room, dishevelled hair giving her the air of a small lion. A Gryffindor, Minerva had known it the minute she had laid eyes on her, already feeling a protective instinct towards her future cub._

_"__Hermione dear, this is Minerva McGonagall; she's a teacher at a very — err — special school and —"_

_"__Minerva? Like the goddess?" had interrupted the brunette, eyes wide as a plate, ignoring her mother's sigh for cutting her off._

_The Head Deputy had chuckled lightly, curious about that vivacious child. Usually, they stood as far away from her as possible, certainly afraid by her uncommon attire — and the stern look she had practiced over decades of teaching. Hermione, for her part, had seemed panting to come closer and run her hand on the soft material, mesmerised by the robes that looked just like the ones she'd pictured in the stories about wizards she used to read._

_"__I'm not sure my parents knew about her," Minerva had said, her emerald eyes glowing with amusement. "You like mythology?"_

_"__I like to read anything, but the mythology… that fits me."_

_"__How?"_

_"__Well, I —" The girl had glanced shyly at her parents, not quite sure if she could say what she'd never really dared to tell them. But the black-haired woman was… different. Hermione hadn't known why or how, but somehow, she had felt someone understood her for the first time, she had felt like someone _knew _even before asking. "I'm different," she had simply stated, not really knowing what word could possibly describe what she was or felt. "I'm better with books than people, and in mythology stories people don't get call 'freak', even if they're different."_

_Freak. It had always surprise the witch how muggle kids could give a hard time to each other, simply because one of their peers had something uncommon about them. She had nodded in understanding, beckoning for the girl to come sit next to her on the couch. Then, in her low, soothing voice, she had whispered something Hermione still remembered to this day, and that had comforted her like nothing before:_

_"__I'm a freak too."_

* * *

><p>All went very smoothly. The young woman, firmly holding the dagger, drove it in her stomach, doubling up in pain as the first gush of blood started spilling on her trembling hands. A raucous scream pierced through the air, and Minerva understood it was her who had broken the silence. The silk, along with the ring, escaped her hand, the small jewel bouncing on the wooden floor. A muffled whimper had crossed the now much paler lips of the brunette, but nothing more. She was looking at her hands, their pristine skin covered in bright red, somehow bewildered; who'd have expect such a slender human being to contain this much blood?<p>

* * *

><p><em>Albus stopped talking when they both heard the gargoyle turning on itself, allowing entrance to a yet unknown visitor. There were three sharp knocks on the door, and the calm voice of Dumbledore told their unexpected guest to enter.<em>

_"__Poppy? That's a surprise! What brings you here, nothing too serious, I hope?"_

_"__Headmaster," she said for sole greetings. "Actually I was looking for professor McGonagall, her elf told me she was in your office," she added, turning towards the said witch, an apologetic smile on her lips._

_"__Of course Poppy, what is it?" Minerva said._

_"__I need your assistance for a student."_

_The Headmaster and his Deputy exchanged a startled gaze._

_"__Well, I'd be glad to help but surely you know my skills as a healer are quite rudimentary?"_

_"__This involves some transfiguration issues I think, and as you're the Head of Gryffindor…"_

_"__Transfi — Poppy, who is this? What happened?"_

_"__It's Miss Granger," answered the nurse, mentally wondering why those lions always had to get themselves into so much trouble. "As to what happened, she didn't tell me, and trust me, you want to see this." _

_The Scot looked at Albus with arched eyebrows and sighed as he was obviously amused by the situation. Oh yes, he knew how his dear friend cared for her prize student more than she'd ever admit._

_The two women arrived at the hospital wing in hurried footsteps. The infirmary was empty, except from one very special student, sitting on a bed behind curtains. The nurse motioned for the Head of Gryffindor to wait, so she could inform the distressed girl of her presence. She had already explained the brunette that, even if she was a skilled healer, there was nothing she could do, as it required a high command on transfiguration spells. The pupil had nodded wordlessly, mentally preparing herself to be dismissed from the school, or worst, to hear and see the disappointment from her favourite teacher._

_"__Miss Granger? Do you mind if I — Oh!"_

_She drew the curtains, revealing her protégée, tremulously looking at her shoes. Minerva would have laughed if it wasn't for the fear she could sense emanating from the girl. She was covered in a light brown fur, big ears protruding from her usual bushy hair. The older witch couldn't help but inwardly smile when she saw the tail of her cub balancing nervously at the edge of the bed._

_"__What happened?"_

_Her voice was unusually soft, considering she was probably dealing with a student of her beloved house breaking a dozen of the school's rules. Her emerald gaze sought Hermione's with a small, encouraging smile._

_"__Miss Granger, you know you can talk to me," she said, lifting the head of her pupil to meet her bright, yellow eyes. "Tell me."_

_The girl averted the intrusive gaze of her mentor for some more minutes, before finally capitulating._

_"__I — I know it is to be used only for — for human transformation, but —" Hermione was hyperventilating, nearly sobbing now. "It's was a cat's hair," she blurted out, biting her lower lip._

_The eyes of the Head Deputy grew wider as realisation washed upon her._

_"__You brewed some Polyjuice Potion?" she breathed in a higher voice than usual, steading herself with a hand on the bed as the girl nodded in confirmation. "How did you —?"_

_"__Well, I took three measures of fluxweed to begin with, and —"_

_"__No, no, I know the recipe," she cut off, "I meant how did you manage to brew it? Did an older student help you?"_

_If this was a seven year's idea of a joke, he or she wouldn't get away with it so easily!_

_"__Err — no, I just did it. Why?"_

_Minerva had not known what had taken her more aback: the fact that Hermione had brewed such a complicated potion on her own, while being only a second year, or the fact she obviously didn't realise how complicated the said potion actually was._

_Her one and only star student._

* * *

><p>The dagger fell on the wooden floor in a metallic sound. The knife had escaped Hermione's feeble grip, her arms hanging motionless alongside her weak body. She was pallid and looked like she was about to faint. Her eyelashes fluttered, as if the flickering light of the candles was suddenly too much for her to bear. Her legs buckled and she fell on her knees, her grey slacks reddened by the pool of blood that had formed at her feet.<p>

* * *

><p><em>It was over. The war was over. How many loses necessary to pay for a bitter peace? Minerva had made it, not really knowing how. She had duelled former students that had become feared and merciless Death Eaters, not without a pinch in her heart. Why had they turned towards Voldemort? Most of them weren't what one could call brilliant, but they could have had a future, a life; now they were just motionless bodies, piled in a dishevelled old classroom.<em>

_In the Great Hall were the survivors, alongside the ones who had bravely fallen. So many young bodies! So many witches and wizards, who still had a life waiting ahead. Why was she still alive? She was old, she had fought three wars; _she_ should be the one lying down peacefully on the cold stones, not them. Her heart sank in her chest when she heard the moan of Molly, who had lost a child. The matriarch was sobbing hysterically over the lifeless body, along with the rest of her family. Harry was comforting Ginny and Ron, his green eyes remaining on Fred, without a blink. Guilt. She knew how it felt and would recognise it anywhere. The Chosen One believed it was his fault, she thought sadly._

_Poppy was running between the wounded, helped by students and teachers alike. In the crowd she distinguished Filius, who was helping a child from his own house to drink a healing potion; his face, usually brighten with mirth, was tired and marked by the salty trail of tears. Horace had fallen weak-kneed, his back against a pillar; in his eyes were dancing the ghosts of the students he had not manage to save. Hagrid was bringing some beds from what was left of the infirmary, his massive figure shaking with sobs. Minerva should have helped them. She should have._

_But her mind was driven by another preoccupation: find the girl. Part of her wanted to stay right here, in the Great Hall, as to protect her from what she could possibly discover. What if Hermione had died along the others? What if she was terribly wounded? What would she do, if she had failed to keep her protégée safe from any harm? Limping in the ruins of her beloved castle, Minerva tried to ignore the throbbing pain of the deep cuts she had suffered and to focus her animagus' senses on finding that special scent of her favourite pupil._

_She soon smelt the characteristic perfume of that young, pristine skin; orchids and white lilies. Muffled sobs reached her acute ear, and she quickly spotted a small huddled up silhouette. The young woman was hiding behind a fallen pillar, her clothes dust-covered and half ripped, letting her Head of House catch a glimpse of her bruised skin._

_Wordlessly, she approached the girl, her rush of panic momentarily paralysing her mind as her emerald gaze fell upon the girl's hands covered in blood. She quickly realised it wasn't hers, and turning around, she noticed a body lying in red dust: Lavender Brown. Her stomach twisted nauseously as she recognised the bite mark of a werewolf. Minerva took a deep breath to strengthen herself: her protégée needed her; it was no time for flinching._

_Gently, she kneeled next to the brunette, taking her tainted hands in hers. Silently, she waved her wand and a basin of water with a sponge and a bar of household soap appeared before them. She watered the sponge and rubbed it on the soap. She felt Hermione shiver under her touch but didn't back down, thoughtfully caressing the irritated skin. The water in the bowl soon turned crimson, and the iron smell of blood clinging to their respective clothes like the scent of Death. She poured some more water on the hands of her student and conjured a towel to dry them._

_"__I — I tried, I —"_

_Minerva lifted her head in surprise, looking in the tumultuous eyes of the girl._

_"__I couldn't save her," she breathed in a halting, hoarse voice. "I — I tried but I was too late, I —" she broke down in tears, her delicate figure shaken by sorrow. "I'm so — I'm so sorry, professor, I — I couldn't stop the bleeding. I couldn't — and Lavender, she —"_

_"__Hush, my dear, it's over now," came the low Scottish lilt, brushing her cheeks as Minerva pulled her into a calming hug, rocking her slowly. "I'm here. I'm right here"_

* * *

><p>"Hermione."<p>

The name fell from her lips with a delightful ease, the purr, rolling on her tongue like a strong whisky, making her light-headed. It felt like a deep breath after drowning into the darkest abyss, like a rebirth —

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Hermione."_

_She was beautiful in her white, nacreous dress; she was perfect. Absolutely perfect, thought Minerva, who was leaning casually in the doorframe, her emerald eyes devouring the soon-to-be married woman. She couldn't help but smile, remembering with a certain nostalgia how fast the time had run; it seemed like it was yesterday, she was sorting the brunette into the House of the braves. She was proud of what her pupil had become, of how she had grown into that ravishing and confident young woman._

_Deep inside, she felt something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Maybe something she didn't really want to know, or just wasn't ready to acknowledge. The brunette turned around, a faint smile on her lips. In her eyes floated the same determination Minerva had seen when she had come to her office, telling her she, along with Harry and Ron, wouldn't come back for their seventh year, because of a mission Dumbledore had confided them. It was strange, really, to see this sense of duty radiating from the girl, when she should have been jumping for joy. There wasn't any sadness in the hazel irises though, but no true happiness either. There were… regrets?_

_"__You look stunning my dear," she whispered, eyeing the dress one more time with a growing smile. "Absolutely stunning."_

_The bride-to-be said nothing, answering by a timid nod, her eyes watering unexpectedly. What if there was a chance? Would she take it? What if it was already too late to take that chance? _

_"__I'm a bit scared," she simply said, faking a sheepish smile her mentor didn't buy, but hopefully had the courtesy of not mentioning. "There will be so many people, tomorrow…"_

_"__The Malfoys certainly have a taste for grandeur." How many guests would there be again? 300? 400? "But I trust every single person there won't be able to keep their eyes off you," she added softly, brushing the tears off Hermione's cheek. "You will be wonderful, as always."_

* * *

><p>— like a second chance.<p>

The Hogwarts Headmistress ran, falling on her knees as she reached her protégée. Hermione's eyelashes fluttered while she tried to focus her sleepy gaze on those emerald pools she liked so much. Since the very first day that woman had entered her life, she had never ceased to long for her eyes to find hers. She had always sought pride in the green irises. She had always wanted the older witch to _see _her, to _really_ see her.

She tried to smile, but was stopped by a harsh cough, droplets of blood colouring her white lips. The wound on her stomach burned, and it was the only thing to remind her she was still alive, because everything else had been engulfed in numbness already. The words she desperately wanted, _needed_ to say died in her throat, a strange mixture between a death rattle and a bloody gargle smothering them.

"Don't talk," breathed the Scottish with her rolling and soothing tilt, "it's ok, you — you're going to be ok."

_What if she isn't, Minerva? What if you can't save her? _The tip of her wand was tracing intricate patterns on the gaping wound, but the injury was far too grave for simple healing spells to work. She'd have to apparate to , there was no other way.

"Please."

The voice was barely above a whisper, and Minerva nearly missed it while she was taking the young woman in her arms; they would have to act quickly, the apparition would certainly take Hermione's last strength.

"Please, don't."

But they were already gone.

* * *

><p><em>A.N: As always, I hope you'll enjoy the story. This was a challenge by MegaNerdAlert. Tell me what you thought of it; reviews are always greatly appreciated. :)<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Three years before._

Coming back to Hogwarts felt… weird. In the train, Hermione had spent most of the trip alone, looking absentmindedly at the window; like every year since she had started her magical education, it was pouring rain in Scotland, and the droplets of water seemed to run as fast as they could on the glass. As the Hogwarts Express was slowly approaching from Hogsmead's station one could distinguish in the distance, she turned to wake up her friends, moved by the habit, only to realise, to _remember _they were not there. The seats next to her were empty. This time, the wagon lady hadn't stop by their — her — compartment. Things were different; things had _changed._

Harry and Ron had started their auror training, immediately taken by a Ministry that was eager to make a clean sweep of its embarrassing acts during the last war. The two boys hadn't really understood why their friend wanted to return to Hogwarts and finish her education, when she could have had any job she wanted with a snap of her fingers. To them, exams, rules, curfew, teachers, were synonym of a cage; to her, it was comforting. After being on the run for almost a year, wondering if they were going to make it to the next day, she liked the idea of returning to the castle even more. She needed those strong walls, those familiar stairs. She didn't want the freedom her friends were craving for, nor that fame they were using. To her, this was scary.

The girl was equally terrified of her return to Hogwarts, to be honest. She knew that many students had died during the last battle, and many others had not wish to return the theatre that held their friends' death. The castle had been repaired for the most important parts, but there was still work to do. The healing process was long and it seemed that for many things, only time could mend the wounds.

The recognisable whistle rang, announcing their arrival. The locomotive slowed down, soon stopping in a last jolt. Almost immediately, the doors of the compartments swung open, dozen of students storming in the hall with the discretion of a herd of elephants. Hermione was holding her breath against her own door, not quite daring to open it. For the first time, she felt nervous at the prospect of returning to those grounds. Hogwarts had always felt like home, like the place she belonged to, but now she just felt like returning to a childhood memory, blurred by adulthood's harsh realities. She felt out of place somehow, like she hadn't really earned the right to come back. The others, they had stayed, they had faced the physical punishments, the dreadful detentions, when she suddenly felt like a runaway.

When she heard the noise of steps slowly diminish, she put on her dark cloak and left the train. She saw with a nostalgic smile Hagrid leading the first years towards the boats, insisting with his loud, hoarse voice that they were not to push their classmates overboard. She quickly walked towards the thestrals, missing the time when she still believed magic could accomplish anything, including charming the coaches to take the students to the castle. She spotted Neville, Ginny and Luna. The dreamy blond was wearing a necklace made out of beer bottle caps and holding the latest issue of the Quibbler. Hermione's smile grew slightly wider as she joined them just before the thestrals set off. Several coaches away, she saw Draco Malfoy sitting alone on the back seat, his cold eyes locked in hers, an arrogant smile dancing on his lips. She opened her mouth, as if to retort something to his silent statement, but the jolt of her coach cut her off. When she looked again, the blonde was nowhere to see.

The brunette listened with a distant ear what was being said around her. Ginny was hoping to get nominated captain of Gryffindor's quidditch team this year, wondering if the quidditch pitch would be fully repaired already. She already had her little idea as who would be an asset for the lions, it seemed. Neville couldn't contain his excitement as professor Sprout had found a Minbulus Minbletonia of an extreme beauty. Hermione vaguely recalled it was his favourite plant, and nodded with a polite smile, not really finding the strength within her to add any proper comment. Luna for her part was wearing her usual dreamy smile, lost in an article she was the only one to fully understand.

They arrived at the castle, soon sitting with their classmates at the large tables of their respective house. It seemed they were less students than the last years. Not only the seventh years, but also in the younger ranks; the first years' group looked so small, Hermione thought, and the tables had many — too many — vacant places. The teachers were all here though, which was a pleasant surprise. The brunette had expected some of them to leave Hogwarts, but somehow, they were like the backbone of the school. There was this strong sense of duty floating around them, but also a gleam of hope. A hope the Golden Girl, as they had called her in the newspapers, wasn't sure she still possessed within herself.

Neville was still rambling on about his plant, but she wasn't listening anymore, her eyes fixed on the impressive witch who was sitting on the Headmistress' chair. Minerva McGonagall was the new head of the school and held this responsibility with her usual pride. She was dressed in long, dark robes, with tartan edges that reminded of Gryffindor's colours. Her pointed hat gave her a stern look, which would indubitably impress the first years, but her green eyes were sparkling, Hermione noticed. She was happily chatting with Pomona Sprout, but still, her mind seemed to be elsewhere. The brunette didn't have the time to wonder where any longer, as all of the sudden, those emerald eyes were fixed on her. She quickly looked away, blushing with embarrassment.

McGonagall had always been more than just a teacher, than her Head of House; she was her mentor. She was the person Hermione looked up to, the person she had always wanted to impress. The relationship between the two women had grown into some sort of weird friendship during Hermione's years at Hogwarts. Not exactly like the friendship she shared with Ron and Harry; with the Scottish, there was a mutual respect that sometimes lacked with the boys, but also a reassuring solemnity. It wasn't pompous or anything, but it was serious. What they discussed, what they laughed about or sometimes disagreed on; it wasn't a joke, it _mattered_. With her classmates, Hermione had often the impression that nothing really mattered, that everything was just a surface you had to polish, but there was nothing behind it when you scratched it a bit. Even if it was good-natured, her friends were always teasing her about her eagerness to learn and the way she cherished books and knowledge. McGonagall was the only one to really appreciate what the girl had to say, what she thought; she was the only one not only to hear, but also to _listen_.

For a long time during her first year, the old, stern teacher had been her only human interaction. The small 'know-it-all' was ostracised by her peers and it hadn't taken long for her Head of House to notice that and take her under her wing. It had begun with the brunette's unending essays, which never seemed to be good enough for her, because she always came to Minerva's office for some clarifications or further questions. Soon enough, they had shared their first tea, and the habit of long discussions at least one evening a week had set up between the two, without anyone really thinking about it.

How she had missed that, during her time on the run. The rolling accent that always send shivers to her heart; the bright, hearty laugh she was persuaded to be the only student to have ever heard; the traditional "What are you, mister Potter and mister Weasley up to this time?"…

But things had changed. How could it not be different? After Hogwarts battle, she had been offered to stay at the castle after politely refusing — to everyone's surprise — to go at the Weasleys'. They had lost a son, a brother, and she knew Ron would ask for what she could never give him if she went there. She knew Molly Weasley would push the issue as well, because that's just how she was. She knew that Ginny, even if saying her brother was too rough to be with someone like Hermione, she would secretly hope for it, picturing colourful family reunions in her mind. Harry would be thrilled, of course, having his two best friends becoming his family. The trio would survive everything, every hardship thrown at them, like they had always done, and everything would be fine, like it had always been.

She hadn't had the courage to break everything that fateful night.

If someone had seen that things weren't _fine_, it had been McGonagall. She had insisted for Hermione to remain in the castle, making up some silly excuse for the Weasley's clan to ease their deception. The brunette had complied reluctantly, and soon after every injured person had been transferred to the hospital wing — what was left of it at least — or to St Mungo's, her mentor had inquired what was wrong. She had asked for trust, had said she was there, right there for her, that she was not alone. She had whispered a 'please' and brushed a wet, avoiding cheek. Hermione had answered 'tomorrow', and when daylight had come, she was already gone, leaving a small note behind her: 'sorry'.

Waiting with a growing impatience for the moment the mass of students would finally stood and head to their respective dormitories, she let her gaze float absentmindedly on the different tables, recognising a few of the students of her year. Most of them had this awful smile, faking amusement and joy, chatting 'happily' with their friends. Of course, they had to be faking it; they couldn't actually have gotten over everything that had happened, could they? There was no way she was the only one trapped, feeling like an outsider again. She was right next to them, hearing the same conversations, eating the same food, and yet, she wasn't _there._ She was a tangent function next to its trigonometric circle: right there, but not in. There was this invisible wall between them and the rest of the world, and she was apparently the only one aware of it, which only reinforced the cold she felt washing upon her.

A burst of laughter at the Slytherin's table caught her attention. The green and silver were cheering with their usual showmanship and loudness one of their classmate with a clap on his back. It didn't take long to the girl to see who was the said boy. As if he had felt her gaze upon him, his cold grey eyes met hers with obvious amusement and… a certain curiosity. The Gryffindor was surprised that the usual contempt he was always been harbouring with a distasteful pride was now missing. Instead, the blonde was cocking his head to the side, a faint smile on the lips. He rose his glass — half mocking her, half earnest she thought — and a crowd of students blocked her vision as it had just been announced that they were allowed to leave the Hall for their dormitories.

The following day, classes were starting again. Getting back to work helped to ease her mind a bit. Relieved she hadn't lost her love for learning, Hermione felt the same thrill at the idea of entering a classroom as she used to before her "gap year". She was secretly afraid the last events had destroyed more than just parts of the castle, but she couldn't confide to anyone. Her parents were still in Australia, forever oblivious to fact they once had a daughter. Harry and Ron were off for their auror training, and even if they had promised to write, she could feel the three of them were slowly drifting apart. Ron liked her more than she could ever reciprocate it, and she knew it was just a matter of time before he'd get the rejection his clumsy advances were practically begging for. Harry would stick with him no matter what, she thought. He would try to stay in the middle of it, but Hermione knew that, at the end, things would get awkward and she'd be alone. It was strange, to hang with them two without having to be prepare to face an imminent danger. There was no challenge to glue their friendship together like it used to be, besides maybe knowing how to deal with their fame in the wizarding world. Curiously, she seemed to be the only one of the Golden Trio to have trouble managing that.

Ginny was already bored out of her mind, of course, and had asked for Hermione to join her to the Quidditch pitch, so she could practice and chit-chat with her a bit, which the brunette accepted willingly. Sitting on the tribune, she enjoyed the cold, autumnal breeze in her thick hair, watching her friend pirouetting in the distance. She remembered with a faint smile how she used to do the same with Harry and Ron, the boys flying their broom while she was stuck in a book.

"Sure you don't want to try it?" the redhead shouted, only half joking.

"I _already_ tried. Once. And I think we _all_ remember what happened that day," the brunette answered, amused by the proposition.

To this day, the entire Weasley family was still teasing her about that peculiar Quidditch match she had been _forced_ to battle during a Summer holiday passed at their home, which had left her on all four in the most ridiculous of the fall, almost in slow-motion, as she had not managed to catch Ron's pass with her hands, but rather with her head. The heavy quaffle had nearly broke her nose, but everybody — safe for Molly who had run towards her screaming disgrace in the air at her children's behaviour — had been to busy cracking up to actually notice.

"Yeah, I guess we all do," Ginny admitted, giggling. "By the way, I forgot to tell you, as I didn't see you in the Great Hall today —" There was a mixture of concern and suspicion hidden behind the remark, but the ginger had given up on ever getting answers from her friend regarding her strange behaviour. She would figure the things out, it was just a matter of time, she thought. She had even considered asking Fred and Geo— asking _George_ about some extendable ears to spy on the brunette, to finally know what she was doing when she secluded herself away from everybody, not even giving lame excuses anymore to blindfold the inquisitive looks she was given by her peers. But Ginny had simply bet on time, hoping the Golden Girl would open up, eventually. Or at least stop skipping meals more and more often. "— I received a letter from Harry. He writes that he and Ron won't be able to come to Hogsmead as they had planned, but if we're lucky, they should make it for Christmas," she explained, with a bright smile. "I'm sure they didn't anticipate they would have so much work to do with their training, eh?"

"I suppose," said Hermione, politely faking a smile. _There're so many things we didn't anticipate… _She wondered an instant if the two boys were also _feeling_ this change? Had they also realised things would never be the same as before; that the Golden Trio, as the newspapers called them, was slowly decaying? Or was she just the only one left without enough strength to fight for it, to cling to that memory? "But even dark wizards must take a break for Christmas, no?"

The youngest Weasley erupted into a fist of laughter, her shaking silhouette bending over her broom.

"I'll have to remind that one for my answer," she finally managed to say, calming herself. "Maybe that will motivate them to push the matter towards their superiors. Not that my brother wasn't crushed no to be able to see you before Christmas, if you ask me."

But Hermione wasn't asking. She never asked and never would, knowing that dreaded truth already: Ron was stuck in this foolish idea that the two of them were _meant_ to be, that the two best friends would grow old together with a plethora of children — Molly would be more than happy to babysit of course — happily ever after. The saddest part was that all their acquaintances seemed to approve of that, trapping her behind silent walls of approval.

"Well, that will make more stories for them to tell us," she said, desirous of closing that conversation before it would get too centred on her. She absentmindedly flipped through the pages of the book lying on her lap, noticing the paper dog-eared. She stopped for an instant, caressing the little pike, lost in her thoughts.

"Madam Pince will faint when she'll see this," said the redhead after a moment of contemplating her friend in silence. "Hermione Granger _soiling_ a book," she teased, searching for something on the now confused face, trying to read between the lines to know what kind of turmoil was tempesting behind the calm appearances.

"I didn't — I'm not…"

"Hey relax mate, I was only kidding," said Ginny, eyeing the brunette curiously. "It's only a book after all." At those words she thought Hermione was going to choke on her saliva. Merlin forbid her to ever disrespect books in future. She wanted to add something, to confront her friend about the odd behaviour of hers since they had came back to Hogwarts, but she knew better. Seeing the distressed look on the brunette's face, she kept her mouth shut, well aware Hermione would dodge the question anyway. She nodded, chewing her lower lips as she searched for a way to escape, for both her and Hermione's sake. "Well, it was nice of you to accompany me to the pitch, but I think I'm already late for that Potions essay I'm working on with some girls from my year." She lowered her broom, now finding herself at eye level with the brunette. "I'll see you for dinner?"

"Sure," Hermione answered, twisting the ends of her lips in a smile. "Tell me if you need some help with the potions," she added, standing up and brushing the dust off her cloth.

Ginny thanked her with a tired smile, soon flying towards the locker room. The brunette looked at her until she saw her disappear behind the large oak door and left the Quidditch pitch, the precious book under her arm.

She was heading towards the school, walking at a slow rate on purpose. The castle stood up impressive, its towers breaking the sky in a proud gesture. Hogwarts had survived, had fought. Those walls, already bearing history, now showed scars as well. Hermione bit her lip, absentmindedly brushing her left forearm for an instant. During the summer after the battle, the teachers had remained at the school to rebuilt it, helped by some members of the Order of Phoenix or Ministry's employees. Some students had stayed as well, but Hermione was not part of them; she hadn't had the courage to stay. She knew McGonagall would insist for her to explain what was _wrong_ — because it didn't take a genius to notice something was going on under that bushy hair — but she couldn't answer those questions. Not only wasn't she ready to talk about it, about _what happened_, but she also didn't know what to say. _How_ to say it. She had managed to convince herself she wasn't acting out of cowardice, but simply needed to sort the things out for herself before anything else.

But now? She wasn't so sure anymore. Several months had past, since the battle. They had won, she should have been happy, celebrate like the others. The truth was that the simple mention of the 'Golden Trio', as they had named them, made her nauseous. She had been able to avoid social gatherings for several weeks, including the numerous invitations she had gotten from the Weasleys to stay at their home or just meet for a dinner, by pretending she had taken some time off, abroad.

_'__Where?' — 'Australia.' — 'Your parents? Hermione, do you need help? We can come if…' — 'No. No, I'm... It's okay. Thanks.'_

Her parents were still there. She had found them near Adelaide, happy. The spell had worked: they were totally oblivious to the fact that, one year ago, they had a daughter and lived under the grey sun of England. They were now those nice neighbours, smiling, helpful. They had never wanted a child, favouring their respective careers, and have never regretted it. They had taken up scuba diving, as cliché as it may seem, and had planned to visit Thailand this winter. It was a guided tour the wife had found at the local travel office, but the couple had agreed to take one more week to visit on their own; after all, there was no one waiting for them at home, was there?

The spell had worked too well. Hermione had left, becoming that ghost daughter, a _souvenir_. Her return to England went smoothly. She took care of remaining the shadow she had become, and for two weeks, no one was actually aware she was back. She had rented a small studio in muggle London and worked in the archives of a library. They didn't pay much, but it was enough. But the Ministry was insistent in celebrating — and to buff up its image. A ball was to be held there for the inauguration of a new monument for the atrium. The 'Magic is Might' had been put in one of the dark room of the institution, not destroyed, but carefully hidden from memories. They wanted to make a clean break with the past, but it was only yesterday. 'And there was too much to clean', had thought Hermione.

As it was to expect, the ball was held with fawning smiles and ostentation. She had come reluctantly, knowing that if she didn't, people would start asking questions. It would obviously stain the image of the trio, and for both Harry's and Ron's sake, she was ready to… indulge. A sudden headache or another lame excuse would save her from lingering if needed. Of course the said boys were already there when she arrived. In fact, everybody was there. The Weasleys — Percy was suffocating with joy in his new stripped suit, his red hair greasy with brilliantine shining under the lights; Neville, still berated by his grand-mother, oblivious to the fact she secretly admired him but simply didn't know how to show it, not anymore; the Lovegoods were in there own world, smiling at the ceiling…

There were a lot of people. Too much people. All gathered around the mysterious statue covered by a yellowish sheet, or near the various tables where appetisers were flaunted. In the massive crowd, waiters tried to find their way, the arms full of champagne; they were house-elves, serving ethanol bubbles to wizards clinking glasses to 'a new start'.

Ron was the first to notice her moving awkwardly between the guests, a shy hand hiding the side of her face. She had become a master of disguise, after all. He and Harry were discussing with Kingsley and several influential wizards, all of them followed him an eyebrow arched, as he ran off in the middle of their conversation. Hermione let out a surprised gasp as two strong arms enwrapped her in a clumsy, relieved embrace. She smiled, snaking her pale hands on his back, tightening their embrace for his greatest pleasure. She inhaled his characteristic perfume of fields, woods and late summer nights. She liked his odour, comforting, remembrance of those years together, of sweet times. But there was something more, something… new.

"Ronald Weasley, did you steal your father's cologne?" she whispered amused, lost against his protective shoulder.

"Mine actually," he said, beaming. "Do you like it?"

"It's surprising," she smelled tanned leather, whiskey, turf and a distant note of cigar. "But it suits you well. I like it, very grown up."

She was about to ask him if he had chosen it by himself, when a flash of light interrupted her. She blinked, letting go of her friend. Suddenly, she felt naked, _exposed._ The crowd that protected them had move away, she couldn't hear. It felt like a hammer blow had stunned her. She grimaced, her ears pierced by a high-pitched whistling. Another flash, no doubt a comical picture, as she was looking like one of those embittered old ladies, while Ron had his eyes closed and mouth open in surprise.

"Ah! The last but not least of our victorious trio!"

That voice, she knew that voice. Turning towards its origin, she saw Kingsley, his arms open in a friendly — yet exaggerated and artificial — gesture. Since when did he speak like that? She had always seen him as a rather simple man, quiet, with a great sense of duty, not like one of those noisy politicians, granting more importance to appearance than being.

"Hermione! It's nice to see you!"

Two hands fell heavily on her shoulders, designating the man as more than what he really was to the eyes of their audience. A friend, a paternal figure even, when they were just acquaintances. The brunette nodded fumblingly, relieved when she caught sight of Harry coming as well, saving her from her embarrassment. She apologized to the Minister, meeting the raven-haired boy with a genuine smile. Kingsley faked a pleased look, relegated to the level of lambda spectator, falling painfully from his Minister's throne. As Ron before him, Harry took the brunette into his arms. Their hug was punctuated by some more flashes and the audience was on the edge, but she didn't care. For them, it was just show, of course; they had no idea of the bonds that linked the three young adults.

"He's right, it's good to see you," said the boy, patting her back.

"It's good to see you too, Harry," she whispered, letting go of him. "I see Ron and you have gone shopping new tuxedos."

"Yeah, I wanted to take that beautiful antique I had for the Yule Ball, but as everybody's toasting to a new start, I thought it wouldn't quite match with the evening," said the redhead who had joined them. "Blimey! Hermione, I have to say you look —" he paused, obviously searching for the most appropriate and polite word, "— stunning."

She blushed lightly, mumbling a shy 'thanks'. She was dressed in a long champagne-cream dress, with a cowl neck that had already ravished several eyes since her arrival; her naked, pristine back was enough to tempt the most virtuous guests. Her forearms were draped, hidden, by a light golden pashmina, almost translucent. Of course, her knowledge in numerous spells had taken care of the shame that marked her virginal skin; the shawl was for her, not the others.

"How about we go grab something to drink and eat? Kingsley told me we didn't have to pay anything, how great is that?"

Hermione chuckled, sharing a conniving look with Harry, who shrugged. They joined an enthusiastic Ron, who had already prepared a plate with a variety of appetizers and three champagne flutes. The curious eye of the crowd always followed the trio, taking discreet glimpses at their friendship, trying to have a piece of their conversation. The brunette listened with a distant ear her friends discussing the Quidditch matches they had seen this summer, as celebrity gave you quite a number of free tickets, it would seem. She lost herself scanning the mass of people around them, looking for familiar faces. What was left of the Order was here, most of Hogwarts' teachers as well. She thought for a moment she had recognised Viktor Krum, prancing around the place as if he owned it, but kept herself from even mentioning it to her two friends, and applied to hide a bit behind a tall wizard chatting next to them.

"So Hermione, how was Australia?"

The question came out of nowhere, like the punch she had once given the _charming_ brat that was Draco Malfoy.

"Sorry?" she managed to articulate, swallowing hard.

"Australia, Hermione. Your parents, remember?" The two boys smiled, amused. "Are you sure this is your first glass?" they added, falsely suspicious.

"Oh — err — it was fine. I mean, I've felt safer while we were on the run, as every single insect seems to be able to kill you there," she quickly answered, a forced laugh pulling on the corners of her lips. "But I found my parents and everything is fine," she said, washing the lump in her throat down with the end of her glass.

She dreaded the next questions but was saved by the bell, as the stentorian voice of Kingsley was to be heard again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends, thank you all for coming today, to celebrate bravery and honour those who perished during the last reign of terror. We meet together for a new start, to create a better society. We pledge not to repeat those dark times of history, but won't forget it or deny it either…" Hermione doze off, distractedly alcoholising her system, the cold, bubbly drink dancing a lascivious tango with her mind. The crowd applauded the speech, and in the tumult, she could hear the name of the deceased whispered in a quiet prayer. "Now, time has come to reveal the next statue of the Ministry's atrium, a symbol for the new wizards' community. If our Golden Trio would please come…"

Harry and Ron moved, and somehow, Hermione followed, not really knowing what was happening. The glass in her hand had disappeared and the crowd stepped aside before them, forming two pools of people, cheering the three victorious Gryffindors. Officers opened the safety barrier that surrounded the statue, Kingsley beckoning for his three trophies to approach.

"Touch the sheet and let the magic do the rest," he whispered cryptically with a wink.

Each of them put their hands on the soft fabric, unsure what would happen. There was a second of wavering, and then, it started.

The end of the sheet burst into flames, which caused the three hands to retract in fear. It was no common fire, however; the fabric didn't fall in black ashes on the floor, but rather vanished, following the progression of the blaze. When the flames reached the peak of the monument, they burn out and exploded with a light 'pop' into thin golden particles, that kept falling on the guests, never reaching them though, as it was the same kind of enchantment that the ones used for the magical ceiling in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

For a brief moment, the entire atrium was dead silent. Hermione took several steps back, to be sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing, and her eyes went wide as a plate. The crowd exploded in applauses, cheering the Trio, whistling in approval. The brown irises were going from the statue to her two friends, who were equally surprised.

The statue, several meters tall, depicted the three of them, fighting but victorious. Harry had a golden snitch flying around him, Ron, a deluminator in his pocket, and herself, the tales of Beedle the Bard under her arm. They were all throwing spells in unison, determination lacing their features. Their feet were bathed in eternal flames, as a symbol of resistance and force, as 'the burning hope one should never loose', had said Kingsley.

There was another pompous speech she didn't listen to, other pictures she had to pose for with Harry and Ron, but then, the Ball carried on, the Ministry hunting generous donators, supposedly to help restoring wizard London and improve Askaban as well. Just in case, you know.

Hermione had found her way to an empty corner, trying to calm herself and stop hyperventilating. She hated crowds, especially when every single eye was lurking after her; either with envy or admiration, she loathed it. The boys were in their element it seemed, smiling and waving at people like perfect little princes, but she couldn't. Seeing a five meters tall version of herself, albeit beautifully carved in black galaxy granite, was just too much to handle. With a trembling hand, she reached for another glass, emptying half of it in thirsty gulps. She jumped when someone touched her shoulder for her to turn around. Coughing her champagne noisily, she turned on a dime, her eyes meeting dark ones. Dark eyes she had seen before, not so long ago. It felt like yesterday, when those eyes, filled with madness, and looked right into her as she was screaming her lungs off, pleading for mercy, while her skin was etched with madness.

A step back made her buttocks collide harshly with the table, the pyramid of glass reeling dangerously as she did. Her inebriated mind took several seconds to process the information offered: tall witch, long curly dark hair, piercing gaze adumbrated by anthracite make-up…

"My apologies, Hermione. My intention was not to startle you."

That _warm_, round voice had the effect of smelling salts on the brunette. She quickly got a grip on herself, an embarrassed smile on the lips.

"Sorry," she whispered, avoiding Andromeda's gaze, ashamed. "For a moment I thought…"

The pureblood let out a low chuckle, her amused irises seeking Hermione's.

"No need to feel embarrassed my dear," she said, with a movement of the hand. "Physical traits were the only thing I had in common with Bellatrix, from the day we took different paths." The young Gryffindor had often wondered how different Voldemort's first lieutenant would have been, had she not crossed his path. Certainly she wouldn't have grown into a muggle lover like her sister, but maybe she wouldn't have turned that… deranged. She wouldn't have passed fourteen years in Askaban, wouldn't have tortured, killed… "But it's not worth it, to dwell on the past or on what could have been, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded, not really knowing what to say. She didn't know Andromeda very well, to be honest. She admired her courage, to have stood up for herself even though she knew this would mean loosing everything — well, nearly. But now, she had lost everything: her husband had been killed, as well as her beloved daughter and her son-in-law. She had Teddy, sure, but raising her grandson had to be bitter sour. Yet, the woman didn't let any doubt show, remaining proud and stoic, like the _noble and pure family of Black._

"Now I didn't see you the entire summer," she carried on, her dark eyes scrutinising knowingly the young witch's features. "And Merlin knows if I came by the Burrow often, with Teddy; he's so found of Harry, already." She marked a pause, sweet souvenirs obviously coming back alive in her mind. "Your friends told me you took some… time off?"

The Golden Girl wished she were bold enough to ask a 'what is it you really want', and given two or three more glasses of champagne, she might have been, even though her elocution might not have been be able to keep up.

"Harry likes his godson a lot," she said, slowly finishing her glass. "Remus and Tonks chose wisely."

Andromeda took note on how the girl took another flute of champagne and dodged her question. She didn't comment on that, merely forming her own conclusions in her head. She had been through two wars; she knew how it could change people and how it wasn't over for some of them, even in times of victory. She had heard Harry and Ron, wondering when they'd see their friend again, and if they had missed out on something important, that maybe, something was wrong and they hadn't seen it. She had watched how the three of them had met up again, how they had acted. Most of the guests hadn't pay much attention to the details, during the Ball, but she had observed the young girl carefully, seeing how she sometimes seemed to drift away, losing her grip on reality, not in the same world as the two mirthful boys next to her. She had seen the look of terror on her face, suddenly white, as they had revealed the impressive statue. The copious amount of alcohol ingested by the brunette, as well as her averting eyes, hadn't gone unnoticed as well. What was the most sticking for the Black, was the guilt, lingering on the corners of those pink lips when they forced a smile.

"You know," she said after a brief silence, "Nymphadora had thought of you as godmother for her son."

Hermione met her gaze finally, as if judging whether it was a trick or the truth. A veil of sadness shadowed her eyes as she rose the flute to her lips, hesitant. She didn't drink this time.

"I didn't know," she breathed, trying to imagine herself playing with Teddy, raising him. "As I said: they chose wisely," trying to make it sound like a joke.

Both women knew it wasn't.

"You are a very bright witch, Hermione," said the pureblood after a moment. "Bright, courageous… and you have friends who care for you, don't forget that." She put a motherly hand on her shoulder to underline her words. "Now, I hope to see you again soon, young lady." There was something in her voice that made the brunette understand she was going to make that happen, may it please her or not. "If you'll excuse me, my favourite transfiguration teacher was dying to hear about Teddy's last transformations, and it would seem I've outgrown her patience, as I see her hat heading towards us."

Hermione had let Andromeda be engulfed in the crowd, heading to meet the now Headmistress of Hogwarts, and left without further adding, not even taking the time to say goodbye to Harry and Ron. 'I've done my part', she mentally recited like a mantra, vainly trying to convince herself she was only leaving the Ball because it had lasted long enough, and not because McGonagall would certainly ask for an explanation, as to why she had left the castle without notice after the battle, and had remained hidden Merlin knows where most of the Summer. And to be honest, she was…

She wasn't afraid, no. No, a Gryffindor wasn't afraid, right? She had proved a numerous amount of time that she could handle the fear, _control_ it.

But that was before.

Hermione opened her eyes, stepping out of her reverie. While going back to the castle, after her little chat with Ginny, she had somehow stopped, lost in thoughts, and lost track of the time. The night had fallen now, along with a thick mist that barely let the lights of the Great Hall guide her on her way back to the school. She had no idea how much time had passed since she had… blacked out? It had happened several times, already; she would 'wake up', not remembering what she was doing before, or when exactly she 'fell asleep'. She had no control over it, and of course, hadn't dared to speak of it with anyone, hoping it would just go away as it had appeared. She wondered: what if she hadn't fled that day? What if she had talked with McGonagall? Surely the witch would have known what to do, how to heal. Or she would just have listened with her pensive look, never interrupting, only there to support the shaky voice of her former student.

The Gryffindor chased the thought away, hurrying towards the castle, as she was frozen to the bones. Soon enough, she stood before the main entrance, relief washing upon her as it was still open. She bit her lips when she saw that the Great Hall's doors were, for their part, closed. Meaning the dinner had already begun and she wouldn't make the discreet entrance she had hoped for.

The large oak doors always creaked when one opened them, and there was no exception. Hearing the buzzing of conversations briefly stop, Hermione felt her cheeks take a nice shade of red. She turned around, urging her body not to faint, looking frantically at her table, searching her friends. She quickly found Ginny, sitting next to Neville, mouthing a distinguishable 'What the hell'. Marching a bit quicker every step, she arrived next to them nearly running, and let herself fall on the bench. The cold was entirely forgotten.

"Sorry, I — ah — lost track of the time," she breathed, pouring herself some pumpkin juice and filling her plate.

Ginny was looking at her like she had just said she was thinking of dropping out of school, her fork falling loudly on her plate and scattering mashed potatoes and brown sauce on her robes, and Neville had this frowning look of his, mouth slightly opened, obviously still processing what had just happened.

"_Lost track of —_"

"Ginny, keep your voice down!" pleaded the brunette, feeling several students staring warily at them as the redhead's strangled tone was reaching high pitched frequencies.

"Lost track of the time?" repeated the youngest Weasley, more quietly, as she picked up her fork, cleaning her clothes with a napkin with such force it only spread the stain further. "What's up with you, Hermione? Really? And don't even bother avoiding glances, McG hasn't looked away from you since you deigned to join us and the Huffelpuffs are the only ones actually too scared to dare catch a glimpse at our table."

_McGonagall?_ The brunette sat up straight, shivers running down her spine as she could effectively feel the burning emerald gaze on her neck. She could only imagine the frown and the stern eyes, squinting ominously, and the pursed lips, drawing a thin line of suspicion and displeasure.

Ginny looked at her with obvious annoyance, scowling as she angrily planted her fork in a sausage, greasy juice splashing on the arm of a very quiet Neville. Somehow, Hermione had the impression of being propelled back in time, when Ron had received a howler from his mother; it was the same degree of embarrassment and discomfort, and nearly the same range of decibels.

"It's…" She was tempted to say it was nothing; that everything was fine, but the white knuckles of her friend, holding that fork like a harpoon, dissuaded her. "It's Ron and Harry," she finally said, opting for a _version_ of the truth, "I miss them."

She did, actually. She did miss them, how the three of them used to share everything, from heated shouts to comfortable silences. Now they were growing apart. The boys didn't see it, or at least, had made no sign of doing so; Hermione did. She was pushed away by invisible waves, feeling the numbing current drifting her away. She was trapped in cold water, under the ice, unable to find the exit.

"It's more… difficult that I had imagined," she added, thinking it was for the best to add some details, so she would hopefully be let in peace later, "returning to Hogwarts, without them."

It had become a recurrent joke in the trio, as the often wondered if they would _finally_ have a calm, normal year, none of them actually betting they would. Back then, the brunette had wished for it. For safety, for peace. She had it, now. She had everything, and yet, it felt… out of place. Tasteless and disappointing.

She remained silent after that, as if breathing those words had required too much energy. Playing aimlessly with the beans in her plate, she eventually forced herself to eat some. The food rolling on her tongue made her winced in disgust, as she repressed a gag reflex: it tasted like ashes, just like the meat, the pumpkin juice…

If f her friends saw it, they didn't show any sign of it, suddenly very focused on their own plate.

"I get it."

It was a whisper, barely audible. Hesitant, as if the words had been held for too long and freed by the strange resonance Hermione's admission had caused, deep inside.

"It feels so… peaceful. I often wonder if I'm not dreaming," said Neville, a characteristic frown on his face, "if in fact I didn't die with the others, because this calm seems almost —" he stopped, searching for the right word, "— unnatural?" He smiled nervously, looking apologetically at the brunette. Ginny, for her part, was awfully quiet. "Last year, with the resistance, we were a group, fighting for a cause. Now that it's over, most of the D.A didn't come back to Hogwarts, partly because it was hard coming back here, but also because being together brings to many souvenirs up, I guess," earning a curious look from the Golden Girl. It was as if he… knew. "And with all that free time I got out of the habit of having, I almost don't know what to do after class," he added, chuckling. "Thankfully, professor Sprout keeps me busy with the greenhouses."

"You're spending so much time there she confounded you with a plant the other day, when she wanted to give points to our house," the redhead pointed out, the three Gryffindors then bursting into a relieving laugh.

They fell into a relaxed quietness, peaceful smiles lingering on their faces. _Merlin, it felt good to ease off the pressu—_

"You're… You're Hermione Granger, right?_ The_ Hermione Granger?" a small, high-pitched voice asked at her side, revealing a fitting small figure. A first year, not dissimilar to Colin Creevey, she thought, the image of his dead body flashing in her mind.

"Yeah, that's me," she answered carefully, a growing feeling of unease tightening her throat.

"It's such an honour, being in the same house as you!"

Hermione could only see the little blond guy with his annoying camera, trying to get picture of Harry. She remembered how she had once told him quite tartly to leave them alone. She shivered at the memory, suddenly ashamed, with the strong need to go vomit her guilt in the third's floor's lavatory. That little cub couldn't stop talking, but her ears were buzzing again with that piercing whinnying that always seemed to wait for the opportune moment to cloud her mind. She realised he had stopped blabbering, his lips now curled in a hopeful smile. She briefly looked at Neville and Ginny, who were equally uncomfortable, holding their breath for her answer.

"Err — pardon?"

"I said: could you tell us about how it was? You know, the war?"

She froze. In an instant, she was back there, running for her life, chased by Death Eaters, stepping over the lifeless bodies of those she had shared classrooms with. She remembered the horcrux; how Ron and her had killed it with a Basillic's fang before being confronted to the tidal wave created by Voldemort's dying soul. The snake too, that bloody snake who had nearly killed them. Harry's body, held by a livid Hagrid. The dull blow in her heart, as she had believed, for an instant, that everything was lost; how McGonagall's tired hands had steadied her trembling shoulders.

The noise of a metallic goblet colliding with the floor startled her out of her mind. She had spaced out again, only for brief seconds, during which everything had passed before her eyes in fast motion. Looking around her disoriented, she realised it was her cup that had fallen harshly on the stones, spilling pumpkin juice on their robes. Her hands felt numb. They were trembling, and unable to control them, the brunette pressed them on the bench she sat on, hoping to steady herself, to regain composure.

"T-the war?" she managed to stutter, quite taken aback by the request, as no one had ever dared to ask. Well, there was one bold person who might have, had the brunette let her.

"Yeah, the war," repeated the young boy enthusiastically, not hinting at Hermione's blank expression and the sudden paleness of her face. "How it was, when Hogwarts was occupied by Death Eaters?"

In front of her, Neville and Ginny had risen from their seats, their concerned eyes fixed on Hermione's who was now livid. Their alarmed gesture didn't go unnoticed by the Headmistress who was slowly raising a silencing hand towards the colleague she was speaking with, her attention drawn back to that peculiar group of lions.

"I wouldn't know, I — I wasn't there, I was —"

Her quivering lips were stumbling on every word, her voice sounding like a broken record to her ears. The first year frowned at this, mentally comparing what she was saying to the numerous articles he had read on the subject since Voldemort's fall. History was still too fresh; there was many dark areas and speculations, everyone adding his own gossip to the melting pots of stories about what truly happened.

"Because I heard students were tortured, is that true?"

It felt like a hammer blow on her head. She blinked several times, a ragging migraine stomping on her brain, in rhythm with the ear splitting whistling that had now morphed into an agonising shriek. The angry hands of memory were scratching on her cranium like nails on a chalkboard, and Hermione felt nauseous, like she was going to faint. Her burning eyes found Neville's and Ginny's restless ones, as she mouthed a 'sorry' that stuck to her tongue. She rose abruptly, with a force she didn't think she still possessed, stepping on the goblet as she did, sending it flying farther under the Ravenclaw table.

The blue and bronze were now eyeing her curiously, whispering with a frown on their face. Several Slytherin had watched the entire exchange with mocking smiles, except for a certain blond man who was looking at her with a neutral expression, almost disinterested. _They're staring. Staring at you for being such a mess, for— _McGonagall has risen up from her imposing chair as well, concern lacing her features. Hermione found her eyes locked in her mentor's for a brief instant, quickly breaking the contact.

"I'm — I'm sorry," she repeated in a hollow voice, throwing a last, pleading gaze at her friends before leaving the Great Hall in a hurry.

"Hermione, _wait!_"

Ginny's voice echoed in the mind of the brunette as she passed the door, running in the corridors before anyone could catch her. The redhead made a move to follow her friend, but Neville stopped her, pressing a soft yet firm hand on the girl's forearm.

"She needs time alone."

In front of them the little first year was standing with eyes wide as a plate, already stuttering an apology.

"Did I…? It's—it's my fault, isn't it? Merlin, she must ha—hate me," he said, nearly bursting into sobs, earning a tired sigh from Ginny.

"It's not you fault, err…?"

"An—Andrew."

"Andrew. Right. She — ah — she had a rough day," she said, not quite sure the boy was believing her, but it managed to soothe his nerves. She glanced around, noticing that most of the Hall had got back to their previous discussion, except for nasty Slytherin, still laughing noisily. They were soon shut up by McGonagall's wary glare, which made the Weasley smiled faintly. She watched how the Headmistress seemed torn for a moment between leaving her table as well and leaving her prized student in peace. The former it was, as she sat back on her chair, albeit looking like it was covered in drawing pins.

That night, Ginny didn't even dare to knock at the door of Hermione's Head girl private room, hearing the muffled sound of repressed sobs behind the wood.


End file.
